For Lack of A Better Word
by RagingTiger
Summary: The War came and destroyed his world, turned him into a ghoul. Now he wanders the Capital Wasteland with his human trading partner, searching for sustenance to keep them both alive. Original characters, rated Mature for language and violence.
1. A History Lesson

_Gunshots_.

They ring out in the night. Sharp and distinct, shattering the inky calmness that's settled over the Capital Wasteland, the reports carry over empty gullies and through the shattered remains of buildings. Some screaming begins to accompany the gunfire, the high-pitched scream of a woman, but just as quickly as it begins, the screams are abruptly cut off by another volley of shots.

I sit up against the wall of the ruined bank that's serving as my temporary shelter for the night. Tugging my tattered blanket closer to me, I reach over and pick up my weapon which is nearly as battered and worn as I am. Covering my Norinco assault rifle with a corner of the blanket, I slip off the safety with a muffled click and rest the Chinese-built rifle across my lap. My eyes casually scan the building's interior, taking in the rubble that has settled down across what was once a lavish and probably expensively attired structure. Now it's fallen to pieces, much like the civilization that it used to be a part of.

Out in the distance, through the hole that has been blasted in the side of the building, I can see a number of muzzle flashes flaring in the distance. They wink back and forth at each other and if I didn't know what was happening, I might call the sight surreal, maybe even beautiful. But when you've lived as long as I have and seen the things I've seen, there's nothing about gunfire and death that makes you think of anything that resembles beauty. No sir, not one bit.

Though it's pitch-black outside, my eyes can see well in the darkness. It's a side effect of the radiation, coupled with the fact that I spend a decent amount of time underground, which means I've got nearly excellent night vision. If you think that's amazing, you should see my cousins' eyesight. Well maybe not if you're human.

I've got a name, but I've only heard it used on a few rare occasions. Most of the time I usually get hostile stares, if anyone says anything to me it's usually something along the lines of, "What's your business here, creep?" or my personal favorite, "Who let the damn zombie in here?" Oh you get used to it after the first few times, but it really doesn't help your business as a trader, especially not when your clientele is a little sensitive to the exposed muscle, bone, and torn irradiated tissue that used to be your skin. But I guess I shouldn't complain, there are ghouls who have it worse than I do.

That's right. I'm one of them. Not a feral, but to the humans who can't see past their own prejudices, I might as well be one. Never mind that underneath this ripped up exterior, I'm exactly like them. Same heart and lungs, same brain, same feelings and emotions. It might be a little more irradiated than they're used to, but hey, it's what's on the inside that counts, right? Wishful thinking.

I didn't always used to be a ghoul though. I was once a young man, pretty handsome too, if you can believe what my girlfriend and the other women back in that small town I grew up in would say. I was born before the Great War, before those scheming bastards in power went and scorched the world. Before the world became a desert, I was a man. Just like any of those prejudiced sonofabitch humans in the towns.

I remember times when you didn't have to slog it on foot for miles, when the roads were still ribbons of asphalt, overflowing with cars and buses by the ton. I remember the warm heat of a summer day, the songs of birds chirping in the trees, the sound a neighbor's lawnmower would make as they pushed it across the grass. I remember the taste of milk from _one_-headed cows, being able to simply stroll into a supermarket and walk out with as much food as you could carry (without having to kill anyone for it), and the sound of fireworks on the Fourth of July. Now I'm lucky to come across a bottle of water that doesn't taste like it was filtered through the rectum of a dead Brahmin, food consists of whatever you can steal or scavenge, and there's more gunfire than fireworks these days.

I said I had a name. Actually I have two, depending on who you're talking to. Folks in the human settlements know me as Trip, but amongst my own kind, they refer to me by my given name: Tim Ripton. I run a small trading and repair business which is what most of the non-settler types do around these parts. I spend a lot of time in the ruins sifting through the remnants of a more prosperous and peaceful time, looking for shit I can scavenge and sell. It's still a profitable business despite the fact that the margins are pretty high and the competition stiff.

Danger's everywhere out here. There's always the risk of getting killed by Super Mutants or wild animals. And it's not like the humans are any better; besides the slavers and the raiders and mercenaries, there are those trigger-happy Brotherhood of Steel assholes, and those "kill all the irradiated," genocidal bastards from the Enclave. Not to mention the other scavengers and bushwhackers who will gladly put a .556 round into your head or a knife blade between your ribs for a few more pieces of scrap metal or a vial of Jet or a few measly caps.

I used to work alone. I didn't relish the idea of having to work my ass off, just to split the spoils with someone else. That all changed after I decided to try and work the old Capitol Building, despite knowing full well that it was infested with Super Mutants; the lure of unspoiled virgin territory was too much to pass up. And I paid for it; getting ambushed by a bunch of Super Mutant Masters and having to abandon a perfectly good haul while fleeing under a hail of rifle and minigun fire tends to change your opinions real fast. Now I no longer work alone.

My partner's a woman named Linna and while she might look like a real cutie, she doesn't take shit from anyone. She used to be a Regulator back in the day, one real tough bitch, who would just as soon cut the heart out of a raider or slaver before hearing their case. She joined me after I found her unconscious, naked, and near death out in the Wasteland, courtesy of a few raiders who had ambushed her, beaten her to within an inch of her life, stripped and raped her, then left her to die. I managed to get her back to Underworld after negotiating transport with a trade caravan headed for a colony of freed slaves in the Lincoln Memorial. Doc Barrows saved her life and since I was the one who'd brought her to Underworld, she decided that she would repay me by serving as protection for my business. She's become my partner and close friend, but there's nothing between us romantically or sexually. Not only is it bad for business, but I'm not exactly as good-looking as I used to be, if you catch my drift.

Linna's sitting upright next to me now, the .44 S&W revolver she wears at her side now out of its holster, as she listens to the gunfire in the distance. Her primary weapon, a battle-worn R91 assault rifle is leaning next to the wall within easy reach. The moonlight traces in through the hole in the wall and bathed in it, she looks ethereal. Long dark hair swirling to just below her shoulders, her features all sharply-drawn lines and angles, with just enough curve to soften the harshness. Had she been born in the pre-war years, I could easily imagine her on the cover of one of those glossy women's fashion magazines. But since she was unfortunate enough to be born in the time of Dog Eat Dog, she gets by however she needs to. Which in most cases means violence.

"Sounds like someone decided to travel at night," she says in a low voice. She rests her finger on the hammer of her revolver, toying with it like she's about to cock it back. "Pretty stupid idea, especially given that the trade caravans have been warning travelers about raider activity in this area for the last couple months."

"Bad intel," I reply, my eyes fixed on the muzzle flashes in the distance. "We're lucky that Winthrop heard about this from those traders when they stopped by Underworld last month. Otherwise that might be us out there."

Linna snorts in derision. "If that was us out there, this firefight wouldn't still be going on. All those raiders would be dog meat by now." In the distance, the gunfire has stopped, replaced by a few agonized screams and the triumphant whoops of raider war cries. "Looks like the raiders got their prey."

I grimace to myself. "I've got two more hours left on my watch," I say, taking a quick look at my ancient wristwatch, one of the few I've acquired that hasn't been stopped by EMP from the nuclear blasts. "I'll wake you up then and let you take the second shift until dawn."

Linna yawns, nods, then climbs underneath her blanket. "Wake me up when it's time," she says, right before she's lost to the land of sleep. Though she's out immediately, she's a real light sleeper, woe to any intruder who thinks a sleeping Linna is an easy Linna. There's quite a few men in the towns with shattered bones, broken noses, and other les s wholesome injuries to attest to Linna's combat skills.

I curl up in my blanket, my rifle across my chest as I watch the wasteland, making sure no harm comes to either of us. Soon I'll be able to crawl underneath this blanket, get some sleep, and hopefully wake up alive to face a new day in the Capital Wasteland. Which in this world is something not guaranteed. Not at all.

*******

Sunrise. Dawn. Another day in the hell of the Capital Wasteland.

I yawn heavily and stretch out, feeling my stiff muscles and joints crack in a pleasureable manner. Quickly rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I pick up my rifle and sling it over my shoulder, before folding my blanket up and packing it into the worn rucksack sitting nearby. Taking a plastic bottle of dirty water from the rucksack's side pocket, I take a couple quick swigs, grimacing at the foul taste of the liquid. As a ghoul, the radiation has no effect on me and I can drink from pretty much any water source without having to load up on Rad-X, but that doesn't make the shit taste any better.

"Good morning sunshine," quips Linna in a cheerful openly sarcastic voice. She's sitting on a pile of packing crates in the corner, munching away on some Brahmin jerky and reading a battered and worn book from her rucksack. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen.

I guess some things never change. Wars are fought and worlds end, but women will be reading Jane Austen until the end of time.

"Kiss my ass," I shoot back as I give her a quick grin. "How was your watch?"

"Boring and uneventful," she replies around a mouthful of dried beef. "Our raider friends moved on about an hour ago."

"Good." I toss my rucksack over my shouders and reach down to adjust my Chinese Army utility belt. A trench knife, a holstered 10mm pistol, four thirty-round magazines for the assault rifle, a few compartments that hold various personal items, and five grenades (three fragmentation and two pulse) hang from it. The rest of my outfit is simple and worn with numerous pockets. I wear a lightweight flak jacket over my worn trader's gear, just in case. It's always better to be prepared. "Hopefully they're back at their camp by now, doing Jet and inventing new variants on rape, torture, and murder. We should be able to slip on by."

"Well shit, where's the fun in that? I was hoping to get another couple sets of raider armor. I've got a guy in Grayditch who pays big money for this stuff, well the female armor anyways. Who knows what he does with it."

"You trade with some weird bastards, you know that?"

"Hey now. The creepers pay the best. You know that."

"Yeah. Only because they enjoy mentally undressing you with their eyes."

"Tim Ripton, I will gouge those eyeballs out of that rotten zombie face of yours."

"Yeah yeah yeah. Woulda coulda shoulda, baby."

"Asshole."

Ten minutes later and we're suited up and ready to go. We carefully move out of the ruins of the bank, rifles at the ready in case someone's decided to get cute and set up an ambush outside the bank's only entrance. But today we luck out. The entrance is clear.

A half-mile from the bank we find the grisly evidence of last night's raider attack. Two dead Brahmin lie next to each other, their pack saddles tossed in a heap, empty. Four naked bodies, three men and a woman lie near the remains of a fire, all of them bearing ample signs of brutal death and mutilation. After stopping to see if anyone is alive (to no avail) we move on to the north. Our destination is the town of Megaton where Linna and I keep a small place, though we're rarely there. While we do a lot of business in places like Rivet City and Underworld, Megaton is still one of the major hubs for transport and supply. Since nearly all the caravans stop here, we do a brisk business selling equipment and salvage to them for trade elsewhere. We also keep Moira Brown, the propietress of the town's general store, in the loop, selling her a number of goods acquired on our travels.

As of now we've been gone from Megaton for roughly two weeks due to our travel across the Capital Wasteland. It's time to head home, resupply, and get some rest.

I can't wait.


	2. Ambushed

Noon in the Wasteland is always a horrible time. The sun's too high and too hot and there's not much in the way of shade or liquid sustenance. Not to mention you can be seen for miles. But the bonus is that you can usually avoid trouble however if you make a push forward during this time of day; raider bands tend to take long siestas around noon (if they're not incoherent and spaced out on Jet) and slaver convoys prefer to travel at night to avoid attention. So while a rest might sound like a pretty good idea right now, the smart play is to keep on traveling.

My worn combat boots crunch asphalt on the surface of the old Interstate 66 as we travel along a battered and nearly destroyed stretch of road. We passed Big Town about an hour ago, so Linna and I both know that there's not much travel left before we reach Megaton. I'm excited to unload all the crap that we're carrying and get paid, but Linna's more interested in the creature comforts the town has to offer.

"Jesus Christ, Trip, I can't wait to get back to town. The first thing I'm gonna do is walk right into Moriarty's, throw a couple caps on the bar, and get a double shot of whiskey and a beer. Of course that's after a shower," she pants out, wiping the sweat from her brow. "Maybe I'll go out and get laid as well."

"Gonna go to Nova this time?" I chuckle, my eyes scanning the sides of the trail and my rifle at the ready. "Or are you going to let that persistent Irish prick finally get into your pants?"

"Fuck you Timmy," she fires back. Linna normally calls me Trip or Tim, but uses my full name when she's joking around and calls me "Timmy" when she's just in the mood to give me shit. "I could get nearly any man in that town and you know it. Hell maybe I'll screw Colin this time just to see what kind of a reaction I can get out of you."

"You're not going to get any complaints from me, baby. What you smoothskins do on your own time isn't my business."

"Please Timmy. I know you're just bottling up all that sexual frustration on my account. I know you ghouls can still get it up for the right woman."

"Yeah we can. _Right_ being the operative word and frankly babe, I don't know if you're my type."

She laughs at me and gives me a swift playful kick in the ass and I shoot her a grin over my shoulder. In the two years that Linna and I have been partners, we've exchanged plenty of sexual banter and innuendo, but it's never come to fruition. Someone more naïve might actually think that we're attracted to each other and while I have to admit that Linna's a real beauty and I love her sarcastic personaity, in reality, this kind of talk is just what we do. It keeps us loose and relaxed. Hell she's screwed a number of guys in the two years we've been working together and I've never gotten jealous.

As we round the next bend in the road, the unmistakable sound of a rifle report whizzes past me, right as a bullet spangs off of the concrete at my fight. I quickly retreat back behind the bend where the hill slope behind us gives us cover before thrusting my assault rifle around the corner and firing off a quick three-round burst. Pulling back behind cover, I look over at Linna. Her rifle is up and ready, but without a word she reaches back into her combat webbing and pulls an object loose which she hands to me. It's a combat knife with a small pocket mirror attached to the blade with electrician's tape. Taking it from her, I hold it in my right hand, gingerly sticking the improvised mirror around the corner so I can see who just decided to ruin their day by firing on us.

Through the mirror, I can see there are a few overturned and rusted cars surrounding a truck trailer which is still upright with the doors open. Raider graffiti adorns the truck and I can see evidence of a campsite as well; mattresses, ammo boxes, discarded cans and boxes. We've apparently walked right into a raider camp and interrupted their noontime nap. Fuck.

There are three raiders. Two men and a woman; the woman's armed with a rusted bolt-action rifle and appears to be the only one armed with a weapon capable of hitting us at range, so she must have fired the first shot. One of the men is wearing a metal facemask and armed with what appears to be a Chinese pistol and the other Mohawk-sporting male's got a sledgehammer.

Another shot bounces off the dirt mound protecting Linna and I, spitting some dust into my face. I hand the mirror back to Linna and fire off another burst in the general direction of the raiders, just to keep their heads pinned down while Linna and I figure out our plan of attack. In the distance I can hear the raiders whooping, hollering, and screaming obscenities at us. Usual behavior for raiders, but one of the men is putting out some very original insults I've never heard before. What a linguist.

"There's three raiders down there," I relay to Linna, as I fire off two more shots at our attackers. "Two men and a woman. The bitch's got the rifle, the other two are armed with a pistol and a sledgehammer. I think we can probably take them from range."

"If you can draw their fire, I think I can nail both the shooters," she replies, her eyes scanning around for a vantage point. "Then we'll move in and get the bastard with the sledgehammer."

Wheeling back around, I peak my head around the corner, then pull it back quickly as the raider with the rifle fires another shot in my direction. While she's reloading, I carefully level the muzzle of the assault rifle in her direction and squeeze off two quick shots. The Chinese-built rifle I carry isn't exactly all that accurate at long range, but if you're a good enough shot, you can usually make it work for you. I wing her with one bullet through the left shoulder, but she just looks down at the hole, starts cussing up and storm and then fires back at me. Bitch has to be on chems, a .556 round through the shoulder of a normal person is usually enough to make them think twice about continuing to shoot back at you.

Behind me, Linna's pulling a 6x Leupold rifle scope out of her pack and attaching it to the scope mounts on her modified R91 which also has a folding bipod. Setting down her pack, she gingerly climbs on top of the dirt mound, lying prone and moving slowly so as not to attract attention. This is my cue to lean back around the corner and blaze off the remainder of my rifle's magazine in order to draw the raiders' attention. And it works, now there's twice as many bullets bouncing off the dirt by my head, and I can hear the reports from both the pistol and the hunting rifle, meaning that both shooters are trying to get me. Quickly I eject the spent magazine from my rifle and load a fresh one in from my utility belt.

Linna fires a single shot from her R91, the report drifting back over me. Using the mirror I peer back around the corner, just in time to see the male in the blast helmet keel over backwards, a bloody hole in his chest where his heart should be. In the mirror, the female raider momentarily stops shooting to glance over at her fallen companion. And the second she does, a second shot rings out, and the woman twirls around, blood spraying from the back of her head as Linna's .556 round exits through her skull.

That's two shooters down, but there's one problem. _Where the fuck is the guy with the sledgehammer_?

"Oh shit!" I hear Linna shout on the top of the dirt knoll, followed by what sounds like a very angry and masculine grunt. The bastard must have circled around us and climbed up the knoll from the other side. Tossing the rest of my equipment to the ground and grabbing only my rifle, I scramble quickly up the hillside, dislodging all sorts of dust, dirt, and rocks, as I run heedlessly upwards.

On top of the knoll I can see Linna flat on her back, her legs kicking at the Mohawked asshole with the sledgehammer. He's currently trying to crush her neck with the handle, pressing all of his weight down onto it as it lies across Linna's throat. He must have tried to swing for the fences when he saw her, but it looks like she grabbed the handle before the head of the sledgehammer could nail her and he simply used his weight to knock her down. She's gasping and gurgling for air.

I can hear the raider's sadistic voice drifting over the top of the knoll between her gasps. "That's right little bitch. I'm gonna teach you a fuckin' lesson. See you killed my old lady and I figure that I might as well take it out of your ass. I'm gonna fuck you, then kill you, then fuck you again, then make some boots out of that pretty skin of yours." He laughs psychotically and I feel my gut clench. I want this bastard dead and hearing him talk to my partner like that just pisses me off even more.

Suddenly there's a loud "Oooooof," and the raider's voice cuts out. I scramble up the last few feet to the top, to find a gasping Linna on her back with her right boot planted firmly in the raider's crotch. The sledgehammer's dropped on the ground and the raider's bent over, a guttural moan issuing from his throat as Linna gives him another kick in the balls.

Stepping forward I raise my rifle in his direction, squeezing off a shot into each of his kneecaps which send him tumbling towards the ground, screaming in pain. As he falls, I fire again into his chest, blood geysering from the wound. He hits the ground heavily and lies there unmoving, a dark crimson pool spreading from his body.

Slinging my rifle over my back, I reach down and help my partner to her feet. Linna's still gasping a bit, but she's got most of her breath back. I start to collect her gear and rifle for her, as she reaches down to pick up the sledgehammer that the raider dropped. Turning around, I see that the bastard's still breathing, albeit severely wounded. But before I can tell Linna, she rushes over and delivers one heavy blow to his head, using all her weight. She hits him so hard that I can hear his skull audibly crack and his face becomes a bloody misshapen mess. Tossing the hammer down next to him, she spits on the prone body, then reaches over to collect her gear and weapon from me. I don't say a fucking word.

It's a few minutes before either of us speak. "Let's go scavenge what we can from these bastards," she says, slinging her rifle over her shoulder. "Might as well get something out of it. Then let's go home."

Sweeter words have never been spoken.

*****

Twenty minutes later, I'm busy taking stock of the loot we've recovered from the truck while Linna's outside going over the bodies. The raider gang we just eliminated apparently wasn't that profitable, most of their shit is useless crap that isn't worth enough to haul back to Megaton. Other than a few stimpaks, some Rad-X, a couple cans of processed meat, three bottles of assorted liquor, and a couple boxes of .32 caliber rounds, there was hardly anything worth taking in the truck.

I swing open one of the truck doors and step outside. Linna's got a small pile of personal loot from the bodies piled up next to her along with a collection of gear that she's taken from the three dead raiders. Kneeling down next to her, I inspect the stuff that she's found on the bodies. Couple of packs of cigarettes, a flask of vodka, two or three bobby pins, a couple vials of Jet, a few rounds of .32 caliber ammunition, and about ten caps is the grand total. Most of the weapons aren't worth much; the Chinese pistol and the hunting rifle are both in atrocious condition, but they'll make enough caps to justify hauling them back to Megaton.

"What a shit haul," Linna says, as she works on stripping the armor off of the fallen female raider. "This hardly compensates me for being nearly choked to death by Mongo back there. At least the armor will make a tidy profit."

"I don't see why that guy in Grayditch keeps buying the armor off of you. Especially the female armor, between you and me, I find that sort of creepy."

Linna grunts as she finally gets the clasps on the top half of the armor free and tosses it aside. She starts unbuckling the dead raider's belt while continuing to converse casually with me. "To be honest, so do I, but he pays pretty well for the gear, so I don't really give a damn what he does with it," she says, as she gets the belt off and yanks down the fallen raider's leather chaps. "Wow I guess no underwear is the fashion these days among the raider female kind."

I cough dryly and focus my attention on collecting the rest of our haul. "When you're done with your business, let me know, yeah? I know this sort of tickles your sick fancies, but we've got places to go and shit to sell."

"Oh fuck you Timmy."


End file.
